


Putting Pen To Paper

by afteriwake



Series: Where Speech Ends [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4185312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he goes to Serbia to take care of the next part of his mission to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network Sherlock has some time to spend taking care of his affairs. He wants Molly to know how much she means to him, but the words just aren't coming to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putting Pen To Paper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [horrorfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/horrorfangirl/gifts).



> I think I've associated this particular song ("In Between" by Linkin Park) with Sherlock ever since I started writing Sherlock/Molly fanfic, so it was very nice to use it in a story with that pairing being the end goal.

**When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper?**

It had been a long time since he had been home. Well over a year, closer to two than one. And to be honest, he wasn't sure he would ever return. This was the most dangerous part, this trip to Serbia. He would need to be there for months and allow himself to be captured, possibly tortured. But it was important, and Mycroft wanted him to do it, and even though generally he wanted to do the exact opposite of what Mycroft wanted him to do this time he knew he should do it. But the idea that he might never go home loomed in his head and weighed on him. If he died in Serbia it would make no difference to most of his friends, considering they'd thought him dead and gone since his fall from the roof. But Molly...Molly should know the truth. Molly _deserved_ to know it.

The day he had left her home, after she had cut his hair short and bleached it blonde, he had left her carrying a heavy burden. She knew the truth and she could say nothing to anyone except Mycroft, really. She would have to watch all of his friends fall apart and she wouldn't be able to fix them, which he knew was contrary to her nature. She would have to deal with the anger and bewilderment and depression and act brokenhearted and sad herself. He had the feeling she would pull it off well, but it would be hard. He wouldn't be surprised if she had put as much distance between herself and the others as she could by now; Mycroft gave him no real updates on everyone, insisting they were well. Mycroft would say no more than that and while it irritated Sherlock to no end “well” was at least better than “not well.”

This was going to be his last real night in civilization. He was currently in Moscow, getting ready for what was going to be the hardest part of this entire plan. Tomorrow he would be on his way to being smuggled into Serbia and Mycroft's incredibly detailed plan would begin to unfold, if it didn't go off the rails entirely. His brother had told him of a safe place to squirrel away what few possessions he had of value to retrieve when the plan was a success, but Sherlock suspected his brother assumed it would be there to be picked up after his inevitable failure, and that Sherlock would not be alive to pick them up himself. But that didn't matter; Sherlock thrived best when he was striving to prove Mycroft wrong. That trait would do him well in Serbia.

He should have been trying to get at least a few hours rest, but he was currently at the battered oak desk in his room, pen poised over some sheets of paper. He'd been trying to write Molly a letter for the last three hours as her stolen iPod played song after song in his ears. She had probably been quite angry when she realized it was missing, he'd thought; music was very important to her. And this device told a story of her far better than what he had deduced about her or what she had told him herself. A person's taste in music, in _all_ their taste in music, showed what spoke to their soul. Molly was a romantic, through and through, but with spots that showed she'd had her heart broken and occasional sets of fierce unyielding spikes to keep herself from being hurt again. But there were ways around those spikes, songs filled with comfort and healing to listen to after the harshness and pain. But most of all she was an optimist. Her choice in songs spoke to thinking the best of people and things most of the time, of love conquering all. Quite a few of them were actually very interesting, and he had developed definite favorites the more he listened to them.

He'd been cycling through her Linkin Park albums since he sat down to write the letter. That was a group he hadn't been quite sure why she liked. Most of the songs sounded hard and rough, though even he had to admire the craftsmanship behind them. And gradually they began to soften; less yelling and more singing, less harsh rapping and more flowing lyrics. He'd been quite surprised that their third album marked a departure from their initial sound in a lot of ways. That was the one he liked the most, and there were a few songs that stuck out to him. He had switched over to listening to his favorites over and over, and as he wrote Molly's name on a sheet of paper he heard the familiar violins that marked the beginning of the song that said what he simply could not say to her or John or the others on his own.

_Let me apologize to begin with_  
_Let me apologize for what I'm about to say_  
_But trying to be genuine was harder than it seemed_  
_And somehow I got caught up in between_

This letter should be an apology, for how he had treated her, for how he had left her with the burden of the truth, for how he had pushed her away and not let her see until the very end just how important she was. He should beg for her forgiveness, really. But this should also be a letter of hope. Knowing she knew the truth, that she thought for sure he would come back and everything would be all right, it was a solace to him. And he should give her hope in return, even if Mycroft would rather squash it. He wrote something down, and then sighed, crumpling up the paper and turning back to the song, hoping for inspiration.

_Between my pride and my promise_  
_Between my lies and how the truth gets in the way_  
_And things I want to say to you get lost before they come_  
_The only thing that's worse than one is none_

He should let her know he kept her with him, that when he felt alone he drew on her faith in him and it kept him going. He should tell her how important it was that she keep that faith no matter what. He definitely should _not_ tell her that if she lost that faith he wouldn't know what else to rely on. She didn't need guilt if she already had lost it and Mycroft was protecting him from the truth. Guilt would do neither of them any good, even though he knew it was something they both knew well.

He leaned back in the chair, running a hand over his face before picking up the paper and throwing it in the wastebasket with the other ten attempts. He only had one sheet left and there was no way to ask for more without making himself memorable. He needed to stay as inconspicuous as possibly, at least until he was safely out of the country. He shut his eyes, wracking his brain for the words to say, for how to communicate all he needed her to know, as the music continued to play, perfectly summing up the situation.

_And I cannot explain to you_  
_And anything I say or do or plan_  
_Fear is not afraid of you_  
_But guilt's a language you can understand_  
_I cannot explain to you_  
_And anything I say or do_  
_I hope the actions speak the words they can_

Finally he knew. He leaned forward, writing a short note, quoting part of the lyrics and asking her to accept his apology and to always remember him fondly. He would make sure Mycroft gave her back the iPod and he would leave it at this song. Hopefully she would never have to see it and he would never have to let another person's words speak for him, but as he pulled the earbuds out of his ears and reset the player to the start of the song, wrapping the note around it and putting it in the safe spot, he knew they would have to do if the worst happened.


End file.
